


muse

by Areiton



Series: silver & blue [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Character Study, M/M, Silver Fox Steve Rogers, Sugar Daddy, Twink Tony Stark, Young Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29728941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He can’t shake it, that voice, that star bright happy voice.The way it lit up the dark with an unabashed passion for something, a feeling that Steve can’t remember ever having.What must it be like, to love something that much, thatpurely?Or:In which silver fox Steve pines before he gets his boy and thirsty twink Tony inspires without knowing it before he finds the man who wants to keep him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: silver & blue [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161041
Comments: 60
Kudos: 200





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, friends, buckle up. This is gonna be a fluffy ride with spots of angst--cuz it's meeeee. Couple thing:  
> 1\. Chapters will alternate to pre-Inspired and directly following Inspired.  
> 2\. These chapters are significantly shorter than the ones in inspired, but hopefully updates will come faster too.  
> 3\. As always, big thanks to pineapplebreads gorgeous art that inspired this verse.  
> 4\. Enjoy! I hope it's everything you want it to be. <3

He’s hiding from Tasha when he hears it and he doesn’t realize, then, how much it will change. All he knows is he’s bored out of his mind and wants, badly, to go home.

They’re at a charity dinner, and it’s like a dozen before it--badly made food, badly played music, badly hidden agendas. 

He’s hiding because he’s done his bit, smiled and charmed the Senate committee chair, and they’ll get the contract or they won’t, but that’s in Pegs’ hands now, and he wants nothing so much as he wants to go home, but there’s at least two hours before Natasha agrees. She’ll say something sly and cutting if he brings it up, about the empty brownstone, the lonely night watching bad TV and she won’t even be wrong--there’s nothing waiting for him at home. 

Just quiet and empty rooms. 

He’s hiding, sitting in the shadows on a balcony alone with his thoughts when he hears the voice. 

It’s a young male voice and there’s a note of a whine in it, but it’s smooth and sweet too, and Steve goes still, listening. 

“No, Platypus, he’s being a dick. He threatened to cut me off again. Mama talked him down but--no. I know--I  _ know _ , you always say that, but I don’t want to do it half-cocked. If I’m gonna be on my own, I need a plan.” There’s a huff of breath and a long silence, and then, “No it’s  _ awful. _ I know it’s for a good cause, but I made a donation two days ago and all that’s left is dick measuring. It’s all old white senators and lobbyists and the food is  _ awful.  _ They served lamb with fucking mint jelly. Who the hell eats that shit, Rhodey? I just want a greasy cheeseburger.”

Steve smoothers a laugh because the kid, whoever the hell he is, isn’t wrong. 

“I hate these things. I just want to go home, spend the night in my workshop. It’s all I want to do anymore--I finished my work for Howard and I got a chance to work on the arm--you know the one I was telling you about when I was down last month? I finally got the mechanics on the arm right, I just need to run some diagnostics.”

His voice changed, when he spoke about his project, going a bit higher and faster, star bright with excitement, and Steve leaned back in the shadows, listening to him ramble about something Steve didn’t really understand. 

It’s intrusive, but it was soothing too, the kind of raw joy that Steve hadn’t heard in years. 

“Mama is calling, honeybear--do you want to rescue me?”

The voice is fading, a teasing lilt, and Steve’s left alone in the dark, in silence and wonders--

When was the last time he was that excited about  _ anything. _

~*~ 

He isn’t bored. 

That’s what Bucky accuses him of, but the truth is--

He isn’t  _ bored,  _ he’s  _ miserable.  _

~*~ 

He liked being a soldier. It started as a necessity and it grew into something he loved, if only because he was good at it, because even when he wasn’t fighting with Bucky at his side, he felt connected to his brother. 

The truth was, he’d never really thought beyond the Army because there was a not small part of him that was very sure he’d never see that far. 

Then Bucky’s convoy blew up and he was the wrong side of forty and close enough to retirement that it was easy, to sit in that fucking hospital room with Tasha and Pegs and decide he was done. 

~*~ 

He can’t shake it, that voice, that star bright happy voice. 

The way it lit up the dark with an unabashed passion for something, a feeling that Steve can’t remember ever having. 

What must it be like, to love something that much, that _purely?_

He goes to work and he sits through meetings. He’s  _ good _ at his job, they all are, it’s why Shield has done so well in the three years since they retired and opened the doors in the private sector. 

He’s not happy though. He’s--

“You’re lonely,” Tasha says one night, lounging against Bucky’s broad chest, one hand twisted up and dug deep into his hair. “Have you thought about dating?” 

“I don’t need to get my dick wet to be happy,” he says, scoffing and Bucky rumbles a little, a wordless disagreement. 

The voice, star-bright excitement, echoes like a secret and he says, “Maybe I just need to do what I love.” 

Natasha’s eyes are sharp and curious all at once, and he doesn’t twitch under them because he hasn’t squirmed under Tasha’s gaze since they were on their first mission together and she took a knife wound to the gut. 

Holding her insides in place cured him of a lot of his fear of the tiny woman, even if that fear was replaced with respect. 

He smiles at her, at them both and changes the subject to Pegs and Angi and still can’t quite shake the thought. 

~*~ 

He doesn’t tell them, not Tasha or Pegs or Bucky, not at first, not when he enrolls in an art class at NYU, and he doesn’t tell them when he spends a week of sleepless nights painting the deadly dance. He doesn’t tell them when he slips it into his portfolio at the end of his class. 

When he’s told it’s being included in a small gallery showing--he tells them then, takes Tasha and Bucky with him to the show because he can’t bear to go alone. 

He isn’t sure how she’ll react, seeing herself as he has always seen her, beautiful and elegant and deadly. 

He stands a little away while Bucky and Tasha wander the show and come to a slow halt in front of the painting of her, and his breath catches, when Bucky turns to him, his eyes shining and  _ relieved. _

“Goddamn, Stevie,” he breathes and Natasha smiles, drifts closer to him and kisses his cheek. 

“I’m glad you found it,” she says, and he doesn’t have to ask. 

He  _ knows _ . 

A star-bright voice echoes in his mind, a happy excited ramble and he aches, to be able to tell that nameless voice what he gave to Steve. 

He gave him back his passion. 


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up slowly, and there’s a difference that he clocks quick, an immediate wrongness that he instinctively tenses against. He doesn’t share his bed with anyone. His occasional one-night stands happen in a neutral location, and the nights he spends cuddled in Bucky and Nat’s bed happens at their apartment, and even those nights don’t end like this, where he’s naked and there’s a hot heavy body clinging to him--those nights are always about comfort and companionship and inevitably, they gravitate to each other and curl away from him. 

This--

He opens his eyes and all of the tension drains out of him. 

Tony is sleeping against his chest, his hair a fluffy mess, mouth slack and open, his little artists hands curled in fists against his skin. He’s beautiful, pliant and still in a way that Steve hasn’t seen much, because Tony is motion, always, only going _still_ when he’s deep in subspace, pliant and submissive. 

Now, Tony lies against his chest, and he’s quiet and still and _here._

In all the nights they’d spent together, Tony had never done this--there was one night that he fell asleep at the brownstone, after a session and an orgasm, and then passed out on Steve’s bed, but Steve had left him asleep in his bed alone while he slept in the guest room. 

This--waking up naked next to Tony--this is new and feels _achingly_ right, a kind of right that makes his arms tighten, just a little. 

Tony huffs in his sleep, his nose scrunching in an adorable expression of displeasure and snuggles closer. 

For a moment, Steve can’t _breathe._ His fingers itch for a pencil, and he wants so badly to draw Tony, to capture him like this, where he _belongs_ that he can’t breath, can’t move. 

“S’early,” Tony mumbles, and the moment breaks. Steve smiles and dips down to kiss him, quick and fleeting. Tony hums a little and smiles, his eyes still closed. “S’too early,” he says against Steve’s lips. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna make you breakfast.”

That gets him one eye, lazy and hopeful. “Coffee?” 

“Of course.” 

Tony makes a happy little noise and Steve crawls out of bed, tugging on a silk robe and belting it as he smiles down at Tony, curling around his pillow and making a grumpy noise over the empty space Steve’s left behind. 

He’s ached for this, for so long and he never thought he’d get it.

But as unlikely as it seems--Tony is here, naked and snoring soft and adorable in his bed. 

Steve rubs at the smile that won’t quit pulling at his lips and goes to make breakfast. 

~*~ 

Tony is awake when he comes back with a tray laden with breakfast, lounging lazily against the sheets. He looks--

He looks like a spoiled brat with his grabby hands reaching for coffee, lips set in a pout, a lovebite dark and lovely against his throat. He’s slipped into the button down Steve had discarded the night before, his hair a curly mess around his face. 

“Coffee,” Tony says, his voice somewhere between a whine and a demand, and Steve smiles. He hands over a cup--dark with a splash of heavy cream, and two spoonfuls of sugar--to Tony who sniffs it skeptically before he sips it and makes a happy sigh. 

“Does it meet your standards, baby?” Steve teases, lightly, situating the tray across the bed and sitting next to him. Tony immediately curls closer, and snatches up a slice of bacon, nibbling it between sips of coffee. 

He lets Steve feed him, slices of strawberry and bites flakey croissant dipped in chocolate, and Tony leans against him, pliant and pleased, licking juice and chocolate from his fingers until he groans and falls back into the pillows. “No more, Daddy,” he says, patting his tummy with a satisfied smile. 

It does something to him, to see his boy so happy and well cared for, rested and fed and almost purring, calling him _daddy_ so fucking easy. 

He makes a noise, he _must_ make a noise because Tony’s smile has gone sly and dirty, the same smile he uses whenever he wants _sex_ , when he’s hard and aching for it and confident that Steve will take care of him. 

He always does, is the thing. 

When Tony looks at him like that, when he smiles dark and dirty, when he arches his back and puts his whole body on display, his pretty pink cock and lean pale muscles long and just _begging_ to be taken care of. 

He’s looking at him like that now, pretty and taunting and teasing. _Begging_ with everything but words. 

Steve carefully places the tray on the floor and rolls over to Tony, caging him in with his arms, settling over him while Tony arches against his weight. 

“How long can you stay?” Steve murmurs, while he can still think, while he isn’t consumed with the thought of what it felt like, to be inside him, what Tony _looked_ like, riding his cock, the way he’d moved, so pretty and smooth, beautiful and wanton in his pleasure. 

It isn’t the way he had wanted, but it was better, it was perfect, the way that Tony had _taken_ him last night. 

Still--he wants to do it, wants to take his time and take Tony apart, wants to leave him wordless and so wrung out he can't even _move_ , can't do anything but chant Steve’s name. 

He wants it and he wants--he wants _Tony_ , has wanted him for so long he can’t even remember what it feels like, to not ache for this beautiful brilliant boy. 

“How long can you stay, sweetheart?” Steve murmurs again, presses a kiss under his ear and basks in the shiver that Tony gives up. 

“Didn’t you hear me last night, Daddy? I’m gonna keep you,” Tony says, a little bit of a bite in his voice, enough to drag Steve’s head up so he’s staring down at Tony. “I’ll stay as long as you want me,” he murmurs and Steve--

Steve dips down, and kisses him, and the world fades away, until just the two of them and the exist, the edges of the world the confines of this bed and the hot sweet body under his.


	3. Chapter 3

The night he ends up in front of a tattoo shop is the anniversary of the explosion. 

Natasha dragged Bucky to the mountains, somewhere he could hide and lick his wounds, and Pegs retreated with Angi, and he knows that there’s no intention, really, to leave him alone. But they have their own lives, his friends, and their trauma comes before his own. 

He was the one who gave the order that cost Bucky his arm, after all. He was the one who gave the order that killed Dum-Dum and Mortia. 

He spends most of the day in his studio, the one that Buck had helped him create out of the home office he never once used, carving all the guilt and pain into the canvas. When he’s done, when the sun is setting and the night yawns, empty and endless, he stares at the bloody face of Dum-Dum. 

He starts drinking while he sits there, gets a good way through the rotgut vodka Tasha drinks because she’s got an iron stomach, before he shoves out of the brownstone and into the night. 

The wind is cold and it stings as he walks, but it’s reassuring too, because for the first time all day, he doesn’t feel a suffocating heat and the grit of sand against his face. 

Steve tucks his hands in his pockets and walks. 

~*~ 

There’s a part of him, drunk with a touch of belligerence, that wants to find a fight, like he did when he was a kid, dumb and cocksure and too small to ever win. 

He misses that kid, sometimes, because that kid--he was so fucking  _ sure _ about being right. It never occurred to him that the world came in shades of grey and brilliant color, that doing the right thing could be the  _ wrong _ choice, could cost the people he loved  _ everything. _

Bucky would fight him, he thinks, a tiny smirk curling up his lips. For ever thinking he knew best, that what happened to him was Steve’s fault, Bucky’d kick his ass and Natasha’d be in line just a step behind. 

He doesn’t find a fight, though, just keeps walking until his mind is empty and the streets are quiet. 

“You lost, man?” 

The voice is friendly and warm, and he blinks at the man sitting on step leading to--Rescue Tattoo. 

He’s blonde and pretty, with laughing blue eyes and a cup of coffee cradled between long tattooed fingers. 

“You look lost,” he continues. “Cold too.” 

“I’m--” Steve glances around and realizes abruptly he has no fucking clue where he is or how long he’s been walking. He scrubs a hand through his hair, hooks it behind an ear and smiles, a little sheepish. “Yeah, I might be lost.” 

“Good thing you landed in front of us, then,” the stranger says. “We’re a rescue. C’mon, Sam’s makin’ grilled cheese.” 

Steve glances into the waiting night, and for a heartbeat, he considers walking on, giving some excuse--but there’s something glinting in the blonde man’s eyes that makes him step closer, and follow him inside. 

“Sam,” he shouts, as Steve follows him, bemused. 

A black man appears, a grumpy expression on his face and a plate of sandwiches in his hands, and his steps falter, a little, when he sees Steve. “Riley, I didn’t know we  _ shouted _ when we had clients.” 

“He’s not a client,” Riley says and Steve rocks on his heels as they turn to face him, Sam’s expression one of unease and Riley’s grin infectious. “He’s lost.” 

~*~ 

He stays at Rescue Tattoo for hours, listening to Riley and Sam talk about the art and their time in the Air Force, eating grilled cheese and drinking coffee, until his eyes feel like sandpaper, and Riley is almost asleep on Sam’s shoulder. 

“Come back, anytime,” Sam says, and Steve looks at him. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, man--you can come back here.” 

“Don’t get lost,” Riley mumbles, sleepily and Sam huffs a laugh, drops a kiss against his temple and Steve--Steve nods. 

“Yeah. I’ll--I’ll be sure to do that.” 

~*~ 

He goes back, a week later, and finds Sam in the front, sketching. 

Steve eyes it long enough that Sam finally gives him raised eyebrows. “You ever think about getting your own ink?” 

“Thought about it. I--I dunno.” 

“It’s not for everyone,” Sam says, shrugging, and slapping the sketchbook closed. “And there’s a lot of folks wanting a trendy shit, which, man, those anchors and refuse to sink tattoos paid my mortgage last year. But there’s some therapy to it, too, if you want there to be.” 

Steve cocks his head, hair falling to one side and raises an eyebrow. “Think I need some therapy, Wilson?” 

“Think anyone who served as long as you and left for the reasons you did could use therapy,” Sam answers, evenly. 

“Sammy went to school to be a therapist,” Riley says. “He’s pretty good at it.” 

“Someone’s gotta have a day job to keep you in the lifestyle you demand,” Sam teases back, and Riley dips in, kisses him quick. 

“Got a client in ten minutes,” he says. “It’ll be a long job.” 

Sam nods, and pushes him back, and conversation turns to takeout options for the evening, but it gets stuck there, the thought, the  _ what if. _

~*~ 

He draws all the time. He’s still active at Shield, he’s too important to not be, but his career catapulted with deadly dance, and he’s in a strange kind of demand, now. 

There’s something compelling about the art that Sam and Riley do, the delicacy and permanence of the tattoo work, the intricate designs that are both meaningful and meaningless and beautiful. 

He sketches it without really thinking--the Brooklyn bridge and within it, the mountains where it all went wrong, the mountains and cold cold stars. 

He thinks about that voice, a year gone now, star-bright and happy and he smiles a little, sketching. 

~*~ 

He gives the sketch Sam and says, “I want this on my ribs.” 

Sam stares at it for a long moment, lips rolled tight and finally, his voice rough, says, “Yeah, man. Yeah, I can do this.” 

“Make this one--” he points to the north star, “bigger? In the tattoo?” 

“You gonna tell me what it means?” he asks, and Steve smiles, dips his head, silver hiding his eyes for a moment. 

“No. I don’t think I will. Not yet.” 


	4. Chapter 4

It’s late in the afternoon when they’re disturbed. Tony’s lazing on the couch and Steve’s sketching him, listening as he rambles about Stark Resilient and a new project he has coming up, and he’s vibrantly alive, wrapped up in Steve’s tshirt and a pair of sweatpants he’s had to roll twice before they’d stay on, the bottoms puddling around his ankles, until Steve pushes them up and runs his finger over the delicate ankle, circles it with one hand and pulls until Tony grins and stretches out on the couch, his feet propped careless in Steve’s lap. 

Steve’s half-listening, intent on capturing the way Tony’s toes curl a little bit, the way his hair falls into his eyes and the exact shape of the bite on his throat, and he only notices something’s wrong when Tony falls quiet, staring at his phone. 

“Baby?” he asks, a quiet request. Tony startles a little, and he almost drops the phone, his smile going wide and bright and--Steve frowns. It’s off. A little plastic, like he smiles when he’s preforming. He shifts and catches Tony’s hand. “You’re upset.”

Tony flinches, and curls in on himself a little. “I’m--I’m fine, Steve. I just--I didn’t.”

“Stop,” Steve says, letting just a little bit of the military commander he’d been for years slide into his voice, all rough and demand, and it makes Tony’s mouth snap closed, eyes darting up, anxious. “Who is it.” 

“Howard,” Tony whispers. “He wants me to come to the Mansion.” 

Steve shifts up and Tony curls his legs under him, a tight little ball of misery that makes Steve’s gut twist. He reaches for the boy, tugs him up until Tony gives with a little whine, lets himself be tugged and manipulated into Steve’s lap. 

“You don’t have to go,” Steve murmurs. 

“I do. He called. I come. That’s the rules.” 

“Why?” 

Tony goes still, staring at him, and Steve waits, patient. 

He knows Tony, far better than Tony is aware, and he has never understood the hold that Howard has on his son. Why a socialite turned escort turned brilliant CEO still allows his estranged father to call him into the principal’s office like a misbehaving child. 

“I don’t know how to say no to him,” Tony says, softly. “I did, once, when I walked away. But he’s got Mama and Jarvis and I know he’s never going to approve of me--I don’t really want him to. I’m  _ happy.  _ But he calls and I don’t--how do you tell the man you want to love you to go to hell?” 

Daddy issues. 

Tony’d mentioned them, he  _ knew _ they were there, no one voluntarily went into the sex industry for spite, without a massive amount of daddy issues. Still. It’s startling to hear, and he hates Howard, abrupt and violent and blinding.

He plucks the phone from Tony and types a single word. 

_ No. _

Tony stares at it for a long minute, something small and wondrous blooming on his face, until he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Steve’s lips. 

~*~ 

Bucky is waiting for him when he gets to the office on Monday morning. He’s exhausted and he’s a little pissed at his brother, but he keeps it locked down tight.

“Tasha yelled at me all weekend.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything, just brushes past him into his office and sips his coffee, shrugging out of his suit coat. 

“I was outta line, Stevie, I get that. But the kid needed to know you were all in.” 

He grits his teeth. “And that was your job?” 

“Were you gonna do it?” Bucky challenges. 

“Not your call,” Steve snaps. “You’ve done this shit before, with Tony.” 

“Because you fucking  _ love him,” _ Bucky shouts. 

The difference between Bucky and Steve is Bucky gets loud when he’s frustrated, lets his temper flare and then it’s gone, done, forgotten. His  _ anger _ \--true anger, the kind that’s dangerous--that’s quiet and still. 

But Steve is watchful when he’s angry, when he’s frustrated, when he’s happy or sad. He’s slow to act, and quiet even in his anger and frustration, and he doesn’t react at all to Bucky’s shouting, just sits in his chair and blinks up at his brother. 

“You love him,” Bucky says, again, dumbly, his left hand clenching and unclenching, helpless. 

“I do. And you keep fucking with that, with  _ us _ . I could have lost him, because you tried to  _ help _ .” Steve says, softly. “I could have lost him before I ever had him.” 

“Steve--” 

“He’s delicate, Buck. He isn’t what the papers say and he isn’t just a genius wunderkind, he’s--he’s special and he’s delicate and I knew what I was doing, I had a reason for waiting.” 

“Why?” Bucky asks, softly. 

“He doesn’t trust people. To stay, to not use him. I wanted--I wanted to show him he could trust me, before I told him how much he means to me.” Steve leans back in his desk chair. “I still haven’t. I haven’t told him about the tattoos or about you, yet.” 

Bucky’s fist clenches and his throat works, and Steve shakes his head. “You fucked up man, and I don’t know if Tony’s gonna forgive that, not anytime soon. But I  _ didn’t _ lose him.” 

“I wanted to help,” Bucky says, softly. 

“How do you think you’d take it, if i decided to go around you to help you and Tasha?” Steve asks and his brother’s head comes up, eyes narrowed and Steve nods, smiles tightly. “Exactly. You’d be fucking pissed.” 

“Is Tony your Tasha?” Bucky asks, and Steve tips his head, finishes his coffee before he says, “Don’t play dumb, Buck. It wasn’t cute when we were kids, it ain’t cute now.” 

Bucky grins and stands, his hand whirring faintly. “When you go introduce him to the family?” 

Steve shrugs and smiles. 

“Better make it soon, you know how Angi gets.” 

He’s gone quickly and Steve sighs, turning to his work. 

~*~ 

Tony calls at lunch time and Steve excuses himself from a lunch meeting to take the call. 

Tony sounds a little confused and breathless and Steve wonders if he remembered to eat, and makes a note to send him lunch tomorrow. 

“Did you send me pizza?” Tony asks. 

Steve tips his head back against the wall, a smile tugging at his lips. “No, that’d probably be Buck. He’s feeling a little guilty.” 

Tony snorts. “Your bestie gonna keep sticking his nose in my life?” 

“If you’re in mine, probably,” Steve admits. “But he’s gonna keep it outta our relationship, so that’s something.” 

Tony’s quiet for a long moment and then, “He was trying to help, wasn’t he?” 

“He was. Badly, but yeah. In his way, he was trying.” 

“Why?” Tony asks and Steve smiles. 

“You know why, baby,” he says, softly. Then, casually, without letting the churning nerves in his gut slip into his voice he says, “They want to meet you.” 

“Who?” Tony asks, warily. 

“My family,” Steve says, gentle and Tony’s breath catches on the other end of the line. He waits, patient, because this is his choice. 

“What if they--”

“Love you. They already do,” Steve says, firmly. 

“Why would they?” 

“Because I do,” Steve says simply. “They love you because I do.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being MIA, I was moving. Here's some fluff.

“Remind me why we’re here?” Steve asks, mildly, staring out at the gallery. There’s already a crowd gathering and Natasha forced him into a suit for this, so he gives up on the idea that maybe it’ll be a quick night, that he’ll get to go home and finish a pizza while he watches the Dodgers. 

“Because Pepper Potts is brilliant and you need to be introduced,” Natasha says evenly. She adjusts the skirt of her dress, smoothes it down even though she looks impeccable, and Steve swallows a sigh. “If you won’t take your career seriously--” 

“I  _ do,”  _ Steve protests. 

“--then I will.” She nods at the door. “Show time, Cap.” 

He huffs but he’s never been under the impression that Tasha’s orders were optional, and he slips out of the town car, offering her a hand and escorting her up the walk and into the gallery. 

It’s a lovely collection, abstract watercolors that makes him pause and study the pieces. 

“What do you think of them, Commander?” a smooth voice says and he turns. 

Pepper Potts smiles, slim and lovely and Steve grins at her. “They’re very lonely.” 

She smiles, something brightly satisfied sparking in her gaze and she extends a hand.”It’s a pleasure to meet you. Ms. Romanoff has been keeping you hidden away.” 

“I don’t get out as much as she’d like,” he says, shrugging, hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Ms. Potts,” an assistant says and she turns away for a moment, and Steve lets his gaze sweep over the room. 

His gaze snags on a boy. 

There’s nothing remarkable about him. In a sea of pretty faces and suits, he doesn’t stand out. He’s wearing a classic black suit and white button down, a dark blue tie. His hair is the wildest part of him, curly and untamed, cascading in his eyes. 

He’s laughing at something the girl he’s speaking to said, head tipped back, bright and shinning and for a moment--for one wild moment, Steve almost steps forward, almost goes to him. 

Then Ms. Potts is turning back and her smile is hopeful and professional and Natasha’s watching, and the boy--he’s a  _ boy-- _ slips from his view. 

He smiles and focuses on Pepper. 

~*~ 

Steve sees him again. 

In a scarlet suit and dark lined eyes and a secret smile with those wild curls. 

In a tux and tails, prim and proper at the opera. 

In a fluffy sweater at the ballet and a velvet blue suit and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes at the MoMA. 

In a silver jacket and black pants and arguing with senators. 

He’s suddenly everywhere Steve looks, elusive and lovely. 

“He’s an escort,” Bucky says, while Steve watches the boy from his box at the ballet. 

“What?” 

“The kid,” Bucky slouches, uncomfortable in his suit. His hand clenches and unclenches and he nods at the boy that Steve can’t drag his gaze away from. “Nat looked him up. He’s an escort. That’s why he’s always at these things and never with the same person.” 

“He goes out with Pepper a lot,” Steve says, not quite able to deny that he’s watched the boy. 

Bucky snorts. “Have you  _ seen _ Pepper Potts? Kid might be paid to take it, but at least she’s pretty.” 

He wants to snarl, wants to curse and push back and punch Bucky for saying that. 

He doesn’t. He sits quiet and watches the boy,  _ his boy _ , while the curtain opens and the dance begins. 

Vaguely, he knows that at his side, Bucky is sighing. 

~*~ 

There’s something about it that feels like kismet. 

That feels like inevitability. 

“Tones,” a voice groans and Steve pauses, out of sight. He hates these damn things, charity dinners for wounded soldiers because he always comes alone. Bucky won’t-- _ can’t-- _ stand them and Natasha stays with him. Peggy doesn’t make excuses, just drops the invites on his desk and lets him deal with it. 

He doesn’t want to be here and he doesn’t want to deal with the strangers coming down the hall he’s hidden himself in. 

“But, platypus,” a star-bright voice says, pleading and laughing and Steve goes still. 

Because he  _ knows _ that nickname, said so sweet and teasing, knows the voice, knows it from every single night he’s spent in front of his canvas, from the nights he’s wandered the city, trapped in a nightmare and grief. 

He knows that voice and he wants to step out and say something, wants to draw that star-bright voice close, and wrap himself in it. 

“No one would even know. Just--pull the lever and I get the night off.” 

Steve pauses, listening, confused. 

“You should have taken the night off, you knew I was comin’ to town,” Platypus says, exasperated, and there’s a laugh, bright and happy and familiar. 

He holds his breath and they pass him by, a Black man in Air Force blues who sees him in the dark and his eyes go wary and suspicious but Steve--Steve can’t look away from  _ the boy.  _

_ His  _ boy. 

The one he can’t stop watching, hasn’t been able to stop watching for months now, and he’s hanging on his friend’s arm, and laughing and teasing, alive in a way that Steve’s never seen. 

Platypus wraps an arm around his waist and draws him away and Steve wants to say  _ stop,  _ wants to drag that bright eyed smile to himself, and he doesn’t. 

Because he’s never seen him like this, so happy and free and he doesn’t want to be the reason that smile goes dim, not ever. 

“C’mon, Tony,” Platypus says, gentle, and pulls him away, leaving Steve reeling. 

His name is  _ Tony.  _


End file.
